The Eunuch's Heir (46 page)

WOLFRAM AND
Deishima wed at midsummer, needing a celebration after too much mourning. She wore a gown of local style made from a gleaming green silk from her native land, woven with leaves of gold. A circlet of gold gleamed on her midnight hair, but could not match the glow in her eyes when she looked on her husband.

Since the Hemijrani converts had yet to finish repairs to the great temple, they married in the old chapel, as King Rhys had done, the ceremony spoken in Hemijrani as well as Strelledor, with Lyssa officiating. She grumbled over this but had to agree as the only priestess who could speak both tongues. Every member of the wedding and their guests wore sashes of red for Fionvar DuNormand, and Bernholt’s Master of Music performed “A Blacksmith to his Lady,” weeping as he sang.

Hemijrani rose wine sweetened the joyous feast, but Queen Brianna’s crown weighed heavily upon her, and many said they should not be surprised if she yet chose to step down and quietly retire.

Wolfram taught Deishima a few of the latest dances, which she took to with some grace, although he had to shorten his exuberant strides so as not to leave her behind. More than once, he simply swept her up in his arms and spun them both around the floor.

At last, with a cheery wave to the guests, the bridal couple departed, Wolfram leading the way to their new chambers, a fine suite of rooms where they could overlook the queen’s
garden—not so dissimilar to the one Deishima had left behind.

Shutting the door behind them, Wolfram paused a moment before he turned. He felt giddy with wine and nervous as well. He rested his head against the wood, trying to calm his beating heart, shifting his leather eye patch to rub the skin beneath.

“Shemhiraz,” Deishima murmured, “is something troubling you?”

He turned to face her, still leaning. “What did you call me?”

She ducked her head, shining like an emerald in her wedding dress. “Shemhiraz—it means, ‘shooting star.’ It is how I think of you.”

Smiling, he told her, “I’m fine. It’s just, I’m nervous. I did not expect that.”

Her fingers folding together, she turned her head. Her gaze drifted toward the bed, new linens folded back to greet them.

“Not as nervous as you are, I guess,” he murmured, coming to stand beside her. “If you…aren’t ready, I won’t touch you. I can be patient.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I was not aware you possessed that virtue, Wolfram.”

The three syllables her voice made of his name stirred a warmth deep inside him, and he reached out a gentle finger to slip back a lock of her hair. “Sweet Lady, Deishima, I want you more than anything. I am not good at patience, but I can learn.”

“Only one man has ever…” Her words died away, and she swallowed.

Wolfram faced her and sank to his knees, taking both of her hands in his. “If I can learn to breathe again,” he said. “If I can learn to hold my anger, then I can wait for you. You are worth every moment.”

Slipping one hand free, she stroked his right eyebrow, her finger catching on the scars that cut through it. “I am afraid,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said. “I understand.”

Deishima cupped his cheek, then let her hand slide slowly down, her fingers playing with the hairs at the lacing of his shirt. “If you can face a tiger for me, then I can surely be brave enough to face a man.”

Looking up at this unexpected answer, Wolfram laughed, and was rewarded by her smile. He embraced her waist, drawing her into the warmth of his arms. And growled.